


balling balling balling (he's so baller)

by calculus



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 04:10:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calculus/pseuds/calculus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Derek really cannot handle people all up in his grill, and Stiles is the perfect <s>accessory to murder</s> cover.</p>
<p>(Or, three times Derek Hale pretended Stiles Stilinski was his boyfriend, and one time when they actually are.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mordor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordor/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Derek just wants coffee, not the barista.

Derek’s got a pretty face. Yes, he’s fully aware. He’s not lived twenty five years of his life completely oblivious to the stares that people give him when he walks down the street. He gets it.

(Laura used to pimp him out, back in New York, when she felt that he needed to lighten up a bit, to the customers coming in and out of her workplace at the coffee shop, just a light teasing, and Derek found it funny for a while, if not a little bitter because it had always felt too much like Kate and how she had plied him with compliments and furtive looks, but it was safe because Laura wouldn’t ever really do that to him and he had the ability to say no this time.

Thank you, but no.

It stopped being funny after Laura’s death and Stiles had pimped him out to his school buddy, and that was not okay at all because that hadn’t been a joke for him to join in on. That had been manipulative, and that awful feeling of being used like a toy creeped back up again when Derek had thought he’d been safe from it.

But yeah, the headbashing against the steering wheel had been overkill, he’s willing to concede that much.)

So, he knows how people get when they see his face and his body, and yes, he’s heard the comments they say under their breath--or the loud come-ons that are deliberately said to catch his attention--but no thanks, not for him. He’s not above using his looks to manipulate other people, though, even though it’ll never be pleasant, but when he has the choice? Nope.

So this barista here who’s flashing him all those come-hither glances and coyly brushing her fingers over his when she hands over his drink? Yeah, really not what he’s paying four bucks for.

He grimaces, doesn’t even try to hide it because he’s not into leading anybody on anyway, and jerks his coffee away from her still lingering hand. The flirty grin on her face only falls down a little, but she winks before he turns around and marches out of the store, not at all like there’s a fire flaming at his ass.

It’s not until he’s outside in the semi-sunny day that he looks down at the cup he’s holding and sees the barista’s left a calling card where his order should’ve been written.

Really now.

-

He comes back to the same coffee place because he has an unapologetic sweet tooth and he just really wants that salted caramel mocha in his mouth before he has to deal with grumpy teenage werewolves. Derek wants coffee, and he wants it now.

The same barista is at the cash register today, and he makes a face because yeah, he’s an asshole, but he’s an asshole who has to deal with people all up in his face, and it’s just really not on, okay. Her smile doesn’t even falter, and she greets him with the pseudo-alto voice he hears her trying out a couple of times before he’s reached the counter.

“Hi _there_ , Derek. What can I get for _you_ today?” she purrs, and Derek really doesn’t want to be here at all anymore. He gives her a tight look and adamantly does not shuffle his feet. Because he’s not a teen.

“Can I get a grande salted caramel mocha, extra whip?” he asks with an automatic frown on his face. Her smile grows wider and Derek knows from the look in her eyes as she not-even-subtly checks him out today that she thinks his order’s cute coming from a man who’s rocking the whole I’m-in-a-motorbike-gang-and-I-can-kill-you-with-my-bare-hands look. He can already hear Laura laughing her ass off at him and his ridiculous existence, and it’s enough to make him quirk his lip up a little.

Of course, because he’s got the worst timing ever, the barista catches that small corner of happiness he let slip on his face and gets the idea that he’s smiling at her, and wow, okay. He really does not want to be here anymore at all. It’s like that not-even-a-fucking-smile just opened all the floodgates and gave the go-ahead signal for her to be super-in-his-face now.

She rings him up with flirty smile working twice as hard, and she catches his hand as he’s handing over his debit card, hand lightly caressing his wrist before taking the card. Handing it back, she raises an eyebrow with an almost-predatory gleam in her eye. “Your drink will be right up, _Derek_. I’ll make sure to put _extra cream_ in it, just for _you_.”

Oh dear god.

-

Derek makes the vow never to go to that particular branch again after that incident, but really. It’s like all the supernatural forces are conspiring against him having the least inch of happiness in his life because the other three branches in Beacon Hills are all either closed for maintenance (that one’s because of the time with the harpies and apparently broken glass is really hard to clean up), closing up (because of a ridiculously nasty pixie infestation), or just plain packed with people with some stupid one-day promotion.

It wouldn’t even be a problem because Derek would rather wait on line forever and not be sexually harassed, but he’s got Stiles as a tag-along for once because the monster of the week this week is an actual coven of vampires with ambiguous intentions, so everybody’s on the buddy system for the time being. Derek’s stuck with Stiles duty for the week, and while it’s not the worst thing he’s ever had to suffer through (though he’d rather choke on his tongue than let Stiles know that at all), Stiles insists on going to a coffee shop that actually will let them in and out in under ten minutes.

He’s trying not to examine exactly _why_ he’s accommodating to Stiles’s demands so easily because he’s really not ready at all for any full-level introspection past the customary self-hatred and guilt, so Derek lets himself be dragged to the branch where, of course, nothing’s going on and no supernatural beings have targeted in the last few months. Everything’s perfectly fine here, of course.

Complete with the predatory-looking barista at the cash register again.

(If Derek didn’t know better, he’d say the girl was probably coordinating her schedule for optimal times to see him. He’s almost paranoid enough to believe it, but Laura’s voice in his head telling him how much of a hot-shot he really isn’t is enough let his hackles down.

For now.)

“ _Derek_ , it’s been a while. It’s so _good_ to see you again. What _can_ I get for _you_?” says the barista, eyes roaming all over his body. And yeah, Derek’s really regretting the decision to forego the leather jacket in his car and coming in with just the henley on because it seriously feels like he’s being physically molested by her eyes. How is that even possible.

Stiles, who’s lagging behind because he’s busy futzing with his backpack and papers, misses the opening greeting, but doesn’t miss the way Derek’s body is basically tight and locked in a few spaces before the counter because he manages to walk straight into Derek’s unmoving body.

“Whu--uck. Really, Derek? Really? You can’t even order coffee like a normal person? You gotta just stand there in the middle of the line and basically be the asshole that stops the line that everybody hates?” says Stiles, annoyed and pushing Derek towards the counter with him. Derek moves unwillingly because he’s not an actual douchebag, even though there’s nobody even behind them, and stands before the register, uncomfortable and wishing to be anywhere but here.

Stiles doesn’t even wait for him to order because he’s aware that Derek only likes sweet drinks anyway, but he does give him a questioning look, eyebrows all scrunched down and eyes judging. “Hi there, miss. Can I get a tall red eye and a grande cinnamon, uh, dolce latte with an extra pump of syrup and extra whip for my friend here?”

The barista snaps out of her zoned-out gaze and stares at Stiles for a beat before punching in the number codes for his order.

“That’ll be 8.11, sir. Can I get a name for your orders?” she says, primly and professionally. Stiles rattles off his name and she writes down his name quickly on the two cups before placing it by the queue counter by the espresso machine. She then takes the time that Stiles uses to drag out his wallet from his backpack to unabashedly stare at Derek’s chest, clearly raking through his abs with her sharp gaze.

Like he isn’t uncomfortable as it is. Derek wants to fold his arms over his body, or really, just hide in a bed somewhere with the covers over his head because this shit is just not on. He makes the beginning motions of moving his arms, but the barista is jerked from her visual fantasy when Stiles sticks a ten dollar bill in her face.

“Hey, here you go. You can keep the change, thanks,” says Stiles, all of a sudden irritably, and Derek has only a moment to furrow his brows in consternation before Stiles drags him further into the shop, near one of the couches in the back of the room where a pillar hides the view from the cash register. Stiles flops down onto the couch with aplomb and gestures for Derek to follow suit.

Sitting down gingerly in one of the cushioned chairs, Derek watches Stiles warily, noting the calculating expression on his face.

“So, the girl at the cash register clearly has the hots for you. Like, panty-dropping-at-command kind of hots,” he says, intentionally blithely, twirling a finger in the air. “And, I noticed you weren’t going for it at all. And, you know, not to be the obvious nancy here, but I’m guessing there’s a reason.” Stiles looks at Derek, tilting his head in an obvious question.

Derek clears his throat and tries not to fidget under Stiles’s scrutiny because he’s the alpha, damnit. He’s not feeling like a child being asked by his mother about the cookies he’s hidden under his pillow for a late-night snack because one, his mother’s dead, and two, he’s been trying to be more open with his pack, okay, he’s trying, but it’s uncomfortable as fuck to have verbalize the fact that he’s not okay with being ogled at and hit on repeatedly.

“I...it...” starts Derek, trying to force the words out. “...I don’t... like when they flirt.”

Stiles just stares at him for a bit, eyebrows clearly raised in surprise, and Derek looks down at his clenched hands in his lap. He doesn’t want to listen to Stiles make a joke, not about this, because Stiles has a bit of a mean streak for all that he’s a good person and better pack mate, and it’s a thing that Stiles does, make digs at Derek’s underbelly to get him to react. He gets that, Derek does, because he knows he’s not the most engaging of people, even on his best days, and that he’s usually a sullen mess and getting him to react at all is a feat, so Derek appreciates the effort (even if Stiles can’t help but be a dick about it), but he’s really not in the mood for it right now.

He watches, distantly, as a hand lays over his white-knuckled fists, and Stiles says in a low voice, “Hey. It’s okay.” Derek’s shoulders fall down slowly, and he didn’t even realize that he’d tensed so much in anticipation of Stiles’s response that he’d hunched up and curled into himself a little. He looks up and sees Stiles’s face twisted in an emotion that Derek can’t place, but the furrowing of his brows and the steady fast-paced tick of his heartbeat that marks Stiles out so easily in a crowd tell Derek that he means it.

Derek’s relaxed enough now that he’s realizing how stupid he’s being over something so small, and he feels his cheeks wanting to burn a little, so his instinctive reaction is to clam down, but Stiles just squeezes his hands lightly and gets up with a small smile.

“Our drinks are ready, sourwolf. Let’s go get them so we can go and stake out the monsters of the week. I’m gonna need all the caffeine in the world, like stat, if we’re going to stay up until the ungodly hours of the morning like I know your sourpants wants to.” Stiles grins and bounces a little in place.

Derek wants to smile back as easily as Stiles does like how he always feels like when Stiles smiles at him with those eyes, but he doesn’t. His response, though, is light and unexpectedly filled with fondness.

“Shut up, Stiles,” he says. Stiles wiggles a brow at him, like he knows what Derek’s feeling and they walk to the coffee counter where the barista’s placing the drinks. As they get closer, Derek starts to feel more apprehensive, back tensing when the girl sets her eyes on him and curves her mouth in that seductive smile.

“Derek! I’ve got your drink _all ready_ here. I’ve put _extra_ cream in it, just the way you _like_ it,” she says throatily.

He’s already recoiling back when Stiles grabs his hand and twines their fingers together in one fell swoop. He doesn’t give Derek any time to process the sudden kidnapping of his limb as he draws himself into Derek’s space and wraps the caught arm over his shoulders, effectively sandwiching himself against Derek’s body.

“Oh, Derek, you silly boy. You know all that cream and sugar isn’t good for you,” says Stiles easily, teasing. Derek is rock silent, eyes boring holes into Stiles’s profile, so he doesn’t notice the way the barista scowls.

Stiles smiles back serenely at the girl, though, and picks up his cup while still pressing against Derek. An elbow jabs into the weak part of his ribs, and Derek has to grit his teeth to keep from letting out a surprised huff of breath into Stiles’s ear, although the boy clearly has no qualms about the lack of space between them as he turns into Derek, mouth skimming over his cheek in a light graze to get to his ear.

“Stop freaking out and cuddle me, man,” he hisses, pulling back and smiling at the barista, who’s full-out staring at the two of them petulantly. Derek’s cheek tingles from where Stiles touched it, he thinks absentmindedly. Another jab to his ribs snaps Derek out of his reverie, and he unconsciously tightens his arm around Stiles’s shoulder, pressing the boy closer to him. He glances at the barista and notes how tight her mouth has gone, and he finds a smirk fighting its way onto his lips.

He grabs the latte from the counter, and gives the girl a fake smile before saying, “It’s not like I won’t work it off later,” to Stiles, giving him a heated stare and, before he talks himself out of it, a quick nip at Stiles’s neck, tongue flicking lightly over the flesh.

Stiles is flabbergasted and the shade of maroon that spreads from his cheeks down his neck is almost mesmerizing, but Derek only chuckles and drags them out of the store, not paying any mind to the wide-eyed barista, still standing by the coffee counter.

(Laura’s basically crying with laughter in his mind.

He’s still got it.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Derek really likes pizza. _A lot._ (Also, there's flirtation.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's some pizza terminology that apparently escape people not of the east coast, so:
> 
> plain = cheese/regular pizza  
> pie = refers to the whole pizza  
> grandma = think of a thin-crust sicilian, if you will, (unless you've never had that, in which case, see below) with crushed tomatoes, mozzarella, basil, and heaven  
> sicilian = a thick, airy crust square pizza baked in an aluminum tin rather than a round pan; also delicious as fuck
> 
> i'm going to say this now, the secondary pairing of this fic is derek hale/pizza, so if you don't dig that, well. i don't know, just dig it anyway??? and if i've managed to convert you by the end, hurray!
> 
> also, i like to affectionately refer to this chapter as the pizza feels, and fittingly, this entire chapter is dedicated to pizza.

All Derek wanted was a quiet meal. A quiet evening at his favorite diner, a chance to eat a fucking cheeseburger and curly fries _in peace_.

Of course, it didn’t work out that way, because when has life ever been fair to Derek. Never, that’s when.

Case in point: the universe apparently saw fit to have him seated in Chatty Cathy’s section, even though the place is practically deserted. The service was great and he’d gotten his food not ten minutes after he’d been seated, but. The problem is the waiter who has yet to leave his side since setting down Derek’s plates.

The guy’s got his hips angled towards the table, junk perfectly level with Derek’s eyes — god, why is it that tables always are boosted up just enough to ensure that he’s always crotch level with the wait staff; how’s a guy supposed to be expected to order and eat with _all that_ thrusted in his direction? — thankfully, with a black smock providing an extra layer of protection between the waiter’s junk, which has been leaning progressively closer into Derek’s rapidly shrinking personal space as the minutes tick on.

(It’s not like the guy’s unattractive; dark brown wavy hair curls paired with dusky skin and wickedly suggestive amber-colored eyes that keep jumping from Derek’s own green pair to his _clearly-scowling-for-fuck’s-sake_ lips, and yeah, he’s got a pretty nice voice too, baritone timbre.

But, Derek just wants to eat in _peace_.)

“Can I get you anything else? Coffee to go with that, maybe some dessert?” asks the waiter, one arm curling around the top of the booth’s seat while he balances the rest of his weight on against the sticky formica table with his other elbow, body curving towards Derek’s so much that Derek’s head is nearly cradled into the guy’s neck.

Derek shifts back further into his booth, pictures clawing the guy’s smug face off to the point where he actually has to clench his fists to steel himself. He gives the waiter a pointed look to back the fuck off (which the man takes as an invitation to lean further in _holy god_ ) and bites out, “I’m fine. But you’re gonna wanna move the fuck back before I file for sexual harassment.”

Looks like the guy pays more attention to spoken word than to body language, seeing as he bodily jerks away from Derek’s general direction before Derek’s even finished speaking. Blinking rapidly, and with a growing panicked expression on his face, he moves himself so that there’s at least two arms’ length of space between him and the table.

Huh. Look at that.

“Sexua—o-oh my god, I’m so sorry, holy shit this is so embarrassing. I swear I was _not_ trying to do anything like that, oh my god, I mean,” the waiter babbles, high-pitched and frantic, hands grabbing at his hair and making abortive gestures towards Derek before yanking them away when he realizes he’s crowding in on him again, “I thought you were cute, but I didn’t — I wasn’t — I wanted to — Fuck, please don’t tell my boss, I really need this job and I am so, so sorry. I really didn’t mean to.”

Derek watches him flail some more, and tells himself it’s wrong to laugh at other people’s pain, even though they’d been giving him grief just a moment before. He shouldn’t be enjoying the amount of humiliation the guy’s feeling because it’s wrong. It’s wrong—even though the kid deserves to squirm after the stunt he just pulled, intentional or not—and he won’t even laugh because he’s a good person.

He fails to hold back a snort that somehow managed to work its way up his throat. At least it sounded more derisive than anything else.

(His face remains stiff as a motherfucker. The kid looks mortified enough as it is, he shouldn’t need to see the shit-eating grin that Derek’s magnanimously holding back. He can hear the voice in the back of his mind that sounds too much like Laura telling him that karma’s a bitch, and Derek knows that, but—

His lips are twitching.

Shit.)

Clearing his throat, Derek does his best to hold the murderous expression he had on a moment ago and tells the waiter in clear, if slightly strained, words, “Go away.” He narrows his eyes, and the boy squeaks, voice choking off in something akin to genuine fear by the looks of it, rooted to the floor. Derek’s eyebrows climb as he stares on in silence, waiting for the words to sink in, and sure enough, the waiter rushes away like there were dogs snapping at his heels.

Finally alone, with his now-lukewarm burger— _thanks a lot, asshole_ —as his only company, Derek allows himself the pleasure of a self-satisfied smirk.

-

Optional pack meetings started a while back, but they became mandatory when it grew apparent that Scott’s pseudo-pack and Derek’s would need a specific channel to air any grievances that never failed to arise. In the event of a sufficiently terrifying common enemy, actual strategic plannings could happen, which somehow resulted in the faux-buddy system that they still use to this very day. Both sides had begrudged letting go of past wrongs, but somehow they’d managed.

(Surprisingly, though, Boyd had been the spark to change. Derek’s somewhat—because even Derek’s not a big enough asshole to hold _running for their lives_ against a couple of kids—steadfast second had spoken up during one particularly gruesome meeting with Scott and Derek snarling at each other.

“I’m ordering pizza because I’m starving, and you two really need to get your shit together by the time it gets here.” Boyd looked sufficiently unimpressed, standing up from the wooden crates that Derek used for chairs, and rolled his eyes when Derek glared at him. Erica, who sat next to him, sprawled on the dirt, snorted.

“I want pepperoni, then,” she had said lazily, ignoring the incredulous looks shot her way, waving her hand in the air imperiously. “And pineapple.”

There had a bit of an awkward silence, before Stiles stood and shook himself off, quirking a cautious grin at Erica and nudging at Scott’s side, where he’d been standing, hovering over the makeshift table they’d been using for their maps.

“Pineapple, really? You wanna ruin a perfectly good pizza with that slice of Hawaiian blasphemy?” he asked, eyebrows raised in jest. Erica had stuck her tongue out at him, and gave him the bird dismissively.

But, it’d been Scott’s answer that surprised Derek the most. The boy gave him a look, unreadable, before he turned to Erica with an earnest grin on his face.

“Pineapple’s the best, don’t listen to Stiles. He’s got crap taste in everything, clearly. We can share one, if you want?” Scott suggested, making a face at his best friend, who started making betrayed noise. “But yeah, let’s get some food, guys. Maybe being fed’ll help raise the mood.” He’d pointedly looked at Derek when he had said this, and Derek had wanted nothing more than to give him his bitchiest face because there hadn’t been any time for food.

Still. It had been the first time in a while since Scott had been civil to him—willingly, even—and he had to admit that once Boyd had brought up the talk of food, he remembered how long it’d been since he’d last eaten.

He’d sighed in defeat and taken out his card. “Get me a plain.”)

It’s been five years since, and things are good now. Real good. Scott’s never going to be one of his betas, but if there’s anything they’d learned from the Alpha Pack, it was that packs could contain more than one leader, so they make it work.

Food is a large part of the reason their peace has lasted as long as it has though, and now their weekly pack meetings are held at the newly restored Hale house with either someone stepping up to the plate to cook or bringing in takeout. There’s a rotation schedule, and, this week’s sustenance falls on Derek to procure.

He’s in the kitchen, leaning against the maple-wood cabinet doors and the granite countertop, shuffling through takeout menus. He doesn’t really feel like anything in particular today, so he’s about to call out for one of his betas to make up his mind for him when Erica conveniently breezes in through the dining room door, coffee mug in hand and a pleased smile on her face.

“Hey! You thinking of what to get for dinner?” Erica greets, nudging Derek out of the way to wash her mug in the sink. Derek hums, thumbing one of the menus in his hand.

“Mm. You got a preference?”

Erica thinks for a bit, rinsing her mug and laying it in the drying rack carefully. “There’s a new pizzeria down by Jefferson Road that I’ve been meaning to try out.”

Derek makes a face. “Really? Can we not?” It’s not that he doesn’t like pizza because he does, but. Erica rolls her eyes, cuffing him at the shoulder.

“Stop being such a pizza snob, god. It’s perfectly fine, Derek, Allison’s been going on and on about how good it is, and I really wanna try their garlic knots, okay. And it’s New York-style, so you can actually eat it without making a fuss for once,” she ticks her fingers as she speaks.

Derek perks up at that, can’t help his face lighting up, because if there’s anything Derek’s missed about the Big Apple, it’s the pizza. God, _the pizza_.

Vaguely, he’s aware of Erica laughing at him, and if Derek wasn’t in the middle of an important reminiscence, he’d be ridiculously embarrassed to be caught in such a state, but _pizza_.

He clears his throat and hastily grabs his keys from the table and hurries out the back door, eager to grab dinner for once.

“Don’t forget my garlic knots!” Erica cries out after him, still laughing. “And, pineapple, I want Hawaiian, Derek, make it happen!

-

He forgot his jacket in his haste to get to the pizzeria, inconspicuously named Theresa’s, and he’s already pressed up against the display glass, inhaling the familiar smell of cheese and tomato sauce before he can stop himself. The place is quiet, only a few people sitting in the dine-in area, so it’s not like he’s making the biggest spectacle of himself or anything.

Still, his ears are flaming red and Derek draws himself back, hands clenched at his sides. The mulish expression on his face stays even as the only person behind the counter comes up to the display case with an inviting smile.

“Welcome to Theresa’s! Hungry, are we?” the man says, winking at Derek, eyes flicking over the pane of glass Derek had just embarrassed himself at.

Derek fumbles around for words, making a vague gesture toward the trays of pizza lined up under the glass counter.

“I, uh, heard you guys did, uhm, New York-style pizza, and. It’s--it’s been a while since I’ve seen it done right,” Derek mumbles, wincing at how awkward he sounds. Thankfully, the man behind the counter doesn’t laugh, just gives Derek another smile.

“Your eyes don’t deceive you, man. The owner, Theresa, is actually from Queens, so you’re getting authentic stuff here.” He leans over, as if letting Derek in on a secret. “In my opinion, it’s the best kind there is, so you’ve definitely come to the right place. How do you want it?”

Derek hems and haws for a bit, eyes glued to the pies, darting from the margherita slices to the buffalo chicken. The decor of the building is homey, almost cheesy, with hung-up newsprint clips and kitschy paintings of animals rolling around, the gas ovens a bright silver steel, churning a steady hum, the cans of tomato sauce packed in a corner on a table next to a big fridge, with balls of dough sitting in a tray, ready to tossed. If he didn’t know better, he’d have sworn he’d somehow been transported back to Queens, in the small rundown pizzeria right across from his and Laura’s co-op where they’d go for late lunches on lazy Sunday afternoons with their weekly loads of laundry spinning in the Laundromat next door.

His fingers dig into his palms, and Derek draws himself back, looks up at the man. He wants to shuffle a bit, shift his weight because he feels off-balanced, but the man only smiles encouragingly at him. “Um, can I get one cheese, one pepperoni, and a Hawaiian to go? Do you--do you even do Hawaiian, I mean? I can ask for something else if you don’t?”

The man tilts his head a bit, raising his eyebrows. “Hm, well, I wouldn’t normally tarnish the sanctity of pizza with something like pineapple and ham, but since you asked so nicely, I’ll make you one anyway.” He winks and sticks his hand over the counter for a shake. “I’m Tony, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

“...Derek.” Tony laughs at the lackluster response and handshake.

“Right then. They’ll take a bit for me to prep and bake, maybe about thirty minutes at most, since today’s such a slow day. Would you like anything else while you wait?”

Eying the counter, Derek looks longingly at the tray of grandma slices, and nods. “A slice of grandma.” He pauses. “And three dozen garlic knots.”

“Okay. Well, I’ll heat those up right now while I make your pies, then.” Tony deftly slides out a corner slice and slides it into the open oven before closing the door. Over by the display window by the door, he picks up a pair of tongs and packs three aluminum pans full with garlicky knots, dripping with oil and rolled in bits of parmesan and parsley, and stuffs them too into the oven. Derek settles himself onto the bar stool closest to the door, silently watching Tony toss balls of dough into the hair and catching them, spinning them into wider disks with each toss. He can hear a very soft strain of soft rock being played in the back, and finds himself lulled into relaxation.

-

His first bite is piping hot, and Derek burns the roof of his mouth faster than his healing can kick in, but any thoughts about the sensation is lost in the taste of the actual pizza. There may have been sounds involved. He’s not quite sure.

Tony watches him with a small grin on his face as he rings up Derek’s order, hand drumming on top of the stack of pizza boxes he laid out on the counter.

“Good stuff?”

Derek swallows his last bite slowly, trying to savor the taste for as long as he can. Would it be rude if he licked his fingers right now in front of another person? Grunting, he reaches for a napkin to rub off the grease from his hand, mournfully watching as the paper soaks up the oil.

“Heh. Um, okay, your order comes out to 43.80, plus tax. You wanna pay by cash or credit?”

“Card,” Derek replies, digging into— “Um.”

Tony looks at him and laughs, eyebrows creasing upward. “Oh god, you look like somebody just took away your pet poodle. Did you forget your wallet?”

If the floor could swallow him up right now, that would be great. He scowls, knowing his face is probably red, and jerks his head in a nod.

“Hm, well. How about I let you go just this once, if you promise to come back? Sound good?” Tony says, eyes trained on Derek, lips quirked in a shy smile.

… _Oh._ Well, clearly Derek is the worst werewolf to ever exist if he couldn’t even tell that this guy was interested in him.

“Um, no, I—” Wait. He’s turning down free pizza. He doesn’t have a cent on him, and this poor guy is willing to let him walk out with this food without shelling out a dime because he’s desperate enough for Derek’s dick. “...Thanks.” He should probably give the guy a smile or something.

“Thanks, man,” Derek says again, rewarding Tony with a grin. The one that Erica’s told him made girls swoon in real life. And sure enough, there’s that small intake of breath from Tony and slight pupil dilation.

“N-no problem.” Tony sounds strangled.

Derek can’t help but grin a little wider.

-

He goes back to Theresa’s the next day with the intention of paying his bill and getting the hell out of Dodge with as little interaction with anyone else as possible. Instead, he finds Erica and Isaac in line when he walks through the door.

“Derek! Are you here for lunch too? Wanna join me and Isaac?” Erica greets cheerily, eying him. Derek raises an eyebrow in response.

“Is this a sincere invitation or are you looking for me to foot your bill?” he deadpans. Erica grins, placing a hand over her heart and affecting a wounded expression.

“Why, I would _never_....say no to a free meal.” Isaac snickers. Derek rolls his eyes, but takes out his wallet anyway, much to his betas’ visible pleasure. They move up in line, and coincidentally, Tony seems to be manning the counter again today.

“What can I get fo--Derek! Hi! Hi, you came back!” Tony actually lights up when he catches sight of Derek, and it’s all he can do not to let out a groan because his betas are _right here_ , and Erica in particular looks like she’s just been handed the keys to the universe. He fixes a smile on his face, and nods politely.

“Three Sicilians, two plain, a dozen garlic knots, and--do you want anything, Derek?” asks Isaac. Derek purses his lip a bit and points to the grandma pizza. “Okay, and three grandmas, please.”

Tony blinks, and looks at Derek. “They all with you?” Derek nods grudgingly, and Tony smiles wide.

“Okay, then it’s on the house! Can you tell me what you wanted again?”

There’s a bit of a stunned silence, and Derek feels his face frozen in a probably unflattering wide-eye stare. Isaac looks at Derek and then at Erica, who only shrugs, and repeats his order hesitantly, clearly taken off-guard.

“It’ll take just a few minutes, guys,” says Tony as he shoves the slices into the gas oven. Erica—the only one capable of speech, it seems—thanks Tony and then forcibly drags Derek over to a far-off corner table, Isaac trailing behind.

“What exactly did you do to that poor man?” she asks accusingly, fingers tightly gripping Derek’s wrist. “Did you threaten him? Is that why he’s giving us free food?” He scowls and pulls away, baring his teeth at her.

“I didn’t _do_ anything to him. He--he--” Isaac darts a glance at Derek and then back at Tony, who’s surreptitiously glancing over every now and then, and a knowing look crosses his face.

“He has a crush on you,” he answers for Derek, a small smirk stretching his lips. Erica makes a noise and turns on Derek with a wide, scandalous smirk.

“Does he _really_ ,” she purrs. He feels a blush coming on, and scowls harder, looking down. “Please, Derek, share with the class. You clearly did something.”

“I-I smiled at him, okay. I forgot my wallet, and he let me go without having to pay,” he grumbles, self-conscious of the twin looks of glee on his betas’ faces. Erica looks two seconds away from dying of laughter, Isaac supremely amused.

“You gave the panty-dropping one, didn’t you. Of course you did, oh my god, our alpha’s a pizza whore.” Erica actually laughs here, sharp and loud, and Derek willfully resists the urge to shrink into himself because there’s nothing to be ashamed of, it’s perfectly normal to like pizza, and who is Erica to judge her alpha anyway.

“I was going to pay him back today and tell him I’m not interested,” he mutters, jamming his hands into his jacket. He’s not pouting, he’s _not_.

“You are not!” Erica exclaims, grabbing onto his arm again. “If I’m going to get free food every time because some poor man’s got a crush on you, then so help me, I am going to milk this for all it’s worth, so don’t you dare ruin this for me, Derek.” She glares.

Isaac hums in agreement and bounces a little on his toes. “Can I get another large pizza to go then, if I’m not going to have to pay at all?”

Derek can’t help but wonder if this is the karmic payback finally catching up with him for what he did to that poor kid a month earlier.

-

It’s a thing now, apparently.

Boyd comes back from his patrol shifts with a box of sausage rolls, courtesy of Tony, and gives Derek wry looks every time he passes through the door. Scott takes Allison to Theresa’s for dinner dates every Friday and raves enthusiastically about the thirty percent discount he gets for being Derek’s “brother” and how awesome of a guy Tony is for serving them free wine on the nights he’s working the floor. Lydia just tsks at Derek at pack meetings and loudly talk about how desperate Tony must be if he’s going around, begging for info on Derek’s personal life, but it’s not like that stops her from eating her free veggie stromboli. And Erica comes back from lunch snickering every day over how Tony keeps bribing her to try and bring Derek in with her the next time she comes in.

It’s a thing, and Derek’s just so _done_ with this whole situation.

-

He’s packing up the remains of today’s pack meeting’s food, tossing leftover crusts and pepperoni slices in the trash bin and wrapping up the few slices of specialty Hawaiian that Erica always gets for the fridge, when Stiles comes in to the kitchen, carrying a stack of used paper plates and a half-empty liter of soda.

“Hey! Finishing up?” greets Stiles, dumping his trash in the bin and scuttling to the sink. Derek makes an agreeable noise, distracted, and judges the empty boxes of pizza. They look clean enough, so Derek folds them up for the recycling bin. He’s knotting the trashbag closed when he realizes Stiles is just standing there, back leaning against the sink, watching him.

“You need something?” Derek asks, eyebrow raising. Stiles hums a little, fingers aimlessly tapping away at the sink counter, elbows leaning on the sink rails. He clears his throat and pins Derek down with a neutral gaze.

“You didn’t eat much tonight.” Derek pauses, still hovering over the trashbin. “I mean, you love pizza, I know you do, but you basically picked at your food today.”

He should probably say something, Stiles is expecting him to say something. “I’m....” He’s what? He’s tired of being pimped out for free food? He’s uncomfortable with the fact that he’s being used to manipulate somebody’s emotions? That this whole thing is starting to sully the only good memories he has left when it comes to pizza (and inevitably Laura)? “I’m tired.”

Stiles barks out a quiet laugh. “Tired. Of what, pizza? I mean, that makes sense, we’ve definitely been eating a lot more of that crap lately since dear old Tony’s started ‘courting’ you. I--oh. Oh.” He looks up at Derek with an unreadable expression, and Derek finds himself hunching back, uneasy with himself. “You’re uncomfortable, aren’t you? And we’re making you even more uncomfortable because we keep bringing it up, keep encouraging him. And, what? You’re just going to keep martyring yourself because, what? We want free food? Is that it? Why didn’t you _say_ anything, you idiot?”

Derek grips the bag tightly and scowls at Stiles, uncomfortable with being called out. “I’m not some damsel in distress, Stiles. If I had a problem with it, I would’ve taken care of the situation a long time ago.” Stiles just snorts at his terse response, and that makes Derek’s hackles raise.

“Yeah, sure, because you have such a great track record with that kind of thing. I know you, Derek, okay, I know you’re a pushover when it comes to your pack. You can’t say no to us, you fold like a deck of cards, don’t even pretend. Last week when Erica asked to borrow your Camaro, your _Camaro_ , Derek, you caved in like two seconds when she gave you the pout. And when Boyd asked for new blinds because they weren’t folding properly? You bought him new blinds and personally installed them while he was out during his patrol!” Stiles yells, throwing his hands up.

“What’s your point?” Derek bites out, wanting to be anywhere but here at the moment. Stiles exhales loudly and deflates a moment after.

“ _My point_ ,” he stresses, shuffling over to Derek, pointing out a finger at him, “is that you need tell people when you’re not comfortable with a situation, dumbass. Not to be patronizing or anything, even though you’re totally forcing my hand here, but use your words, okay? If you don’t like something, you _tell_ us, not pretend like you’re fine with everything.” He pokes his finger at Derek’s chest lightly, an exasperated tilt to his mouth.

Derek breathes out through his nose, grip on the trashbag slackened, and ducks his head down a little. His chest is tight, and he has to stop himself from grasping at his t-shirt. He feels Stiles lay a hesitant hand on his shoulder, and suddenly, he’s just _tired_. He slumps, leaning into the hand, dropping the trashbag back in the bin, and finds himself pulled into a tentative hug, Stiles’ arms lightly circling around his shoulders, and Derek just presses into the embrace, lets Stiles tighten the hug, drops his head onto Stiles’ shoulder. Inhales the familiar smell of _Stiles_ , ink and perpetual boy-smell.

“I really hate it,” he mumbles, feels Stiles’ breathing stutter, hears his heartbeat beat a little too fast and the low snort of laughter. His arms instinctively raise and clasp around Stiles’ waist, hands gripping at his clothed hips a little too tightly.

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles says, rubbing his back.

-

Derek’s back at Theresa’s because he is the little engine who could—Stiles’ words and, _wow_ , does he want to punch the laughing boy in the face. He can do this. Tony’s busy taking care of a customer right now, so Derek takes the time to run through the lines that Stiles helped him come up with: the polite letdown and the _sorry for all the free pizza you had to give away_ , trying not to let any of his overwhelming discomfort show on his face. (Judging by the way Stiles is quietly snickering to himself, it’s not really working.)

Tony smiles at the woman and then turns to greet his next customer, and stutters to a stop when he lays eyes on Derek. Derek can hear his heart jump, revving up into a more fast-paced beat, and Derek’s really not equipped for this kind of thing.

“Derek!” Tony breathes, practically giddy, and Derek grimaces in return, trying to put at least the approximation of a smile on his face. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you last stop by! I was starting to think you’d died or something.”

“Uh. No. No, I’ve been. Busy. Uh,” Derek replies, haltingly. Tony bites his lip and leans over the glass counter, hands gripping the edges.

“So, listen. There’s a concert going on this Saturday, and I was wondering if you’d like to come with me? We could go out for froyo after? Erica tells me it’s your favorite,” Tony says in a rush, and he’s just so earnest and unapologetically nervous that all the scenarios Stiles coached him through vanish from Derek’s mind. He can’t help the twist of his head, looking over to where Stiles is leaning by the bar stools, watching them intently, and gives him a pleading expression because he _cannot_ deal with this.

Tony catches the look though, and he falters, rocking back a little, hands loosening their grip on the counter edge. “Oh. Oh, is that, uh, shit, are you--”

Derek feels Stiles’ arms wrap around his waist as he comes up to the counter, stopping behind Derek so that his chest is pressed flat up against Derek’s back, dropping his chin to rest on Derek’s shoulder. He tries not to stiffen as best as he can, but it’s a little unexpected, to say the least.

“Relax, dummy,” Stiles whispers, his breath fanning over Derek’s ear, and Derek has to keep himself from shivering in response, his body reflexively leaning back into Stiles’ chest. His next words are directed at Tony, pointed and paired with a sharp smile. “What’s taking our pizza so long, babe? We’re gonna miss the start of the movie.”

Tony turns purple with embarrassment and immediately scrambles off the counter, scent souring with dejection and shame. He slides out two slices of grandma and a plain slice without Derek’s prompting and transfers them to the oven, pointing Derek to the woman manning the cash register without giving him another glance or saying another word to the pair of them.

Derek feels the urge to say something to Tony, an apology, maybe, for leading him on, but Stiles just tugs him away, and Derek shuffles—Stiles still clinging to his back—over to the register to pay for their meal. After he hands his money over, Stiles drags him back towards the empty stools, hands still possessively on his body, shifting him so that Derek stands facing Stiles who has his back resting against the counter.

“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” asks Stiles, lips quirking up in a mischievous smile, eyes twinkling. His hands slide over Derek’s body, up his arms and shoulders until they link behind his neck, pressing his head forward a little closer to Stiles’s own. “Can’t believe the big bad alpha needed me to bail him out again.” His eyes dart to the left, looking over Derek’s shoulders, then back to his face, and he pulls Derek in even closer, forcing Derek to support his weight by laying his hands on the bar on either side of Stiles, boxing the boy in.

Rolling his eyes a little, Derek leans in more, faintly aware of Tony’s steadily rising voice, and stares Stiles down with a disapproving frown.

“That wasn’t very nice. You could’ve spared him a little dignity,” he chastises. Stiles snorts.

“Better to set him straight completely and save yourself from accidentally leading him on forever,” he winks. “Besides, I know that Danny’s been eying this guy for a while, and I figure Tony deserves somebody who’s actually into him, so everybody wins.” He taps a few fingers against the back of Derek’s neck, smirking when Derek can’t quite hold back the shiver this time, and leans in even further, closing the space between them, face only a few inches away now. “Now, do I get a kiss for rescuing you from your ill-begotten fate or what?”

Derek snorts. “Oh really? You don’t think a good deed is a reward in and of itself anymore?” Stiles breathes out a laugh, tickling Derek’s face.

“ _Please_ , I’m not that altruistic.”

Derek hms, pretends to think a little, leans in to close the space between him and Stiles, hearing the boy’s heartbeat spike and stutter, and ghosts his lips ever so lightly across Stiles’, and then pulls back immediately, not even bothering to hide the shit-eating grin on his face.

“How about I buy you a milkshake, and we call it even?” he asks over his shoulder, walking up to the counter to pick up their meal, leaving Stiles sputtering, still leaning against the stools.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry, i like to ramble a lot. anyway, i didn't expect to take this long to post up the next chapter, sorry, but at least it's here now??? it's all thanks to pizza, guys, i'm not even kidding, it basically fueled like 80% of my writing. i have like _srs_ pizza feels, and i'm supremely biased towards my homecity (and borough), so. ~~all my new yorkers, put your hands up???~~
> 
> that being said, i basically used derek as my voicebox on pizza. sorry, not sorry.
> 
> anyway, _huge_ thanks goes to both sara and sophia who beta'd this chapter. there was, no joke, at least 60% more pizza feels in the original draft, and you have sara to thank for cutting all that crap down. seriously. also, she did a lot of rewording of my words because i fail at english speech, apparently, and dialogue, which is so not my thing, so thanks to her~ and then to sophia because she read over my edits, and then worked me through all things that sounded awkward AND MADE FUN OF MY PIZZA FEELS but she converted in the end. so THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH FOR PUTTING UP WITH ME AND MY SILLINESS. ;~; you are the wind beneath my wings~
> 
> derek/pizza otp 5ever, guys.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is an Interlude and a road trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> friendly reminder since it's been a while: fic was written back in the great s2 hiatus, so characterizations are still in that era, plus characters. time to take a small trip back in (fandom) time.

It’s a bit of a secret that Derek likes to spend his Friday nights alone on the couch in front of the TV, watching late-night sitcoms and eating Funyuns from his fingers. Only a bit because Stiles had caught him red-handed in his boxers with a bowl of cheese puffs one night, avidly watching a rerun episode of My Wife and Kids. Thankfully, the rest of the pack remains blissfully unaware of this situation, or he’d be swarmed with mockery from all ends.

(Stiles loves old sitcoms. They have a standing agreement to marathon whatever’s on Nick at Nite every other Friday. Stiles brings the snacks and gallons of Kool-Aid for himself and orange soda for Derek because he has an obscene love affair with the drink, and Derek provides the space and the comfy couch pillows and blankets to wrap themselves up in while they toss crackers and Doritos at the Tv and each other.)

Isaac’s out with Scott and Erica right now, watching the new Iron Man movie (which he could’ve seen already with Derek had he’d been willing to wait in line for the midnight premiere, but whatever; at least Boyd had come along with so he had somebody to fanboy with), and Boyd is on shift at the police station. Lydia and Allison managed to steal Stiles away for the day, citing a fun day at the mall with a necessary gopher, and since Stiles was the idiot who stepped over Allison’s beloved begonias last week, he couldn’t refuse. So, it’s just Derek and his lonesome at the house tonight, with two large plain pies for company.

It’s just about turning five in the evening, and Derek’s already making himself comfortable on the couch, curling into the throw blanket Boyd had brought over from his house last month and forgot to take back, trying to justify to himself that 5PM is a nighttime hour, so he’s totally allowed to start watching reruns.

His newly acquired full series DVD pack of The Nanny that’s sitting nice and pretty on his coffee table, shrink-wrap still on the box, isn’t at all a factor.

The TV is on, set at a barely audible volume for normal human ears and blaring the last channel that it was left on before it was turned off, some Disney Channel shit with two girls dancing around and flailing over contrived hijinks that they managed to get themselves into; probably Isaac’s fault. 

He picks up yet another slice from the top box of pizza sitting next to him on the couch, just about done with the first pie, and crams it in his mouth, humming around the taste of melted cheese and tangy tomato sauce. It’s not quite as good as Theresa’s, but Derek still can’t manage to bring himself to go to the pizzeria by himself after the whole Tony thing (and no, he’s not _scared_ of confrontation, he’s just...wary), so he makes do with pizzeria down by Magnolia Drive, even though it’s a couple blocks farther, because at least _they_ did delivery. (Of course, Theresa’s wouldn’t do delivery; that would make Derek’s life too easy, obviously.)

With one hand reaching out for the box-set and the other dangling his slice above his mouth, Derek looks every bit the quintessential couch potato, too preoccupied with getting the strings of cheese into his open mouth than really getting the DVDs or watching the moving pictures on the TV screen.

The growing sound of tires on the uneven dirt path towards his house snaps Derek out of his daze and his relaxed lounging. He frowns, cramming the rest of his pizza into his mouth and making a face at the resulting dry-mouth from the crust, and sits up, brushing away the crumbs from his blanket. Those tires running bumpily over the forest edge and into the clearing where the Hale house stood are Stiles’, which means that either Stiles managed to escape the clutches of his kidnappers or they were finally done for the day.

Derek draws the blanket away from his body, but he sits tightly at the edge of the couch, waiting for the jeep to drive up and stop and the passengers to get out before he makes any decisions. If it’s just Stiles, he can keep his box-set out and lay back down because Stiles already knows about his hobby; if it’s Allison and Lydia, Derek has to haul ass and hide the DVDs and the pizza boxes and the blanket (and the crumpled box of tissues sitting by his feet in case he got the itch to watch Lifetime movies again) so there’s nothing incriminating him.

The jeep drives up into the clearing where the house sits, and Derek concentrates on the faint beating hearts, trying his best to filter out the quiet dialogue streaming from the television. There’s the strumming thrum of Stiles’, working at the pace it gets when he’s enthusiastically focused on something and running off at the mouth about it to whoever’s in his immediate vicinity, a fact that curls Derek’s lips upward in a private smile. There’s also two other heartbeats in the jeep with him, and Derek listens for a second longer to confirm the steady beat of Lydia and the naturally slow pump of Allison’s archer’s heart before quickly rising from his seat and clearing the coffee table of the DVDs and replacing it with the tissue box.

By the time the humans swing open the front door and clamber inside, bringing their easy chatter into the house with them, Derek’s already stowed away the remaining pizza box in the refrigerator and his box-set under the sofa cushions where he’s strategically sitting to keep the leopard print design of the container from peeking out between his legs. He looks up easily at the group of three, hand casually holding the last slice of pizza from his first box, and raises an eyebrow.

“Back so early?” He crams the slice into his mouth immediately after, feeling less than smooth when his intended casual question comes out pointed and petulant. “There’s more pizza in the fridge if you guys want,” he mumbles around his food.

Stiles shoots him an easy grin, shouldering at least three wide bags worth of today’s spoils from the mall, and winks. “You miss me that badly, snickerdoodle? You should’ve called, then.”

Derek rolls his eyes and makes sure both Allison’ and Lydia’s attention were focused on dividing the bags they brought back to either’s possession before pulling a face at Stiles, deliberately opening his mouth wide enough so that he’d be gifted with the sight of half-masticated cheese and bread.

(Nobody ever said Derek was a mature adult. He still feels like a petulant fifteen-year-old on a bad day.)

“Stiles kept complaining the entire time we were at the mall,” Lydia says, not looking up from her divvying up the bags, but Derek catches the smirk curving her lips. “Bigger nuisance than I’d actually bargained for; I almost strangled him in Victoria’s Secret.” She looks up then, propping her hands up on her hips, smirk widening as she eyes at a blanching Stiles. “You really should’ve called, Derek, you could’ve helped prevent a homicide today.”

Allison laughs, patting Stiles on the shoulder, and makes her way for the kitchen. “It’s okay, though. Stiles, as you can so clearly see, is still alive and well, thanks to me, his knight in shining armor.” Her laughter trails into kitchen, the door swinging closed after her.

Derek glances back at Stiles, and sure enough, there are tell-tale light red marks encircling his throat like a brand. Stiles pouts and raises a self-conscious hand to the base of his throat.

“You want Derek to kiss your boo-boo, Stiles?” Lydia suggests, eyes glinting gleefully, and Stiles turns fuchsia within seconds, red flushing his skin to match the marks on his neck. Derek scowls at her and she snorts a laugh before joining Allison in the kitchen, leaving the two alone in the living room.

It takes a moment, Derek clearing his throat a bit, before he manages to spit something out into the just-fallen silence. “She, uh, wasn’t lying, then, when she said she almost killed you.” His face feels warmer than usual, but Derek beats back the thought that he might be blushing right now.

Stiles jerks a shoulder up and then down in a robotic imitation of a shrug, and drags his hand back down from his neck. Derek’s eyes trace the movement before snapping to focus on what he was saying.

“Yeah, I almost saw, like, black there for a moment? Don’t let her dainty figure fool you whatsoever, Lydia has like the strongest arm I’ve come across since Allison. I think she’s been taking lessons from her, actually,” Stiles says thoughtfully. Derek just snorts, and after a second, remembering the limp slice in his hand, folds it in half and shoves as much of it as he can fit in his mouth before biting down and pulling away with just the crust left in his hand. Stiles makes a noise, but ignores the question on Derek’s face in favor of walking to the couch and taking a seat next to him, slumping into the cushions with a groan, drawing his legs up.

“Ughhh, longest day of my life, man. I don’t know why people give girls so much crap about shopping, their stamina is like beyond nine-hundred thousand. I barely got through two stores before I broke down,” Stiles muffles into his knees. He digs his socked feet into the seat cushions, and Derek just watches him with an amused smirk around his chewing.

“Laura used to drag me around her favorite stores and use me to play dress-up,” he says thickly in between bites. 

Stiles peeks out from where his face is pressed, half smile on his lips directed at Derek. “Yeah? What was that like for you?”

(Complete, utter _agony_. The amount of times she’d shoved piles of clothes into his reluctant arms and literally kicked him off to the dressing rooms for her own amusement went beyond at least all his fingers and toes. It’d been especially a bitch during her finals weeks where she’d pulled him like a terrified puppy on a leash around Union Square and Chelsea to ‘relieve stress.’

To this day, Derek can’t even look at a pair of designer jeans without getting flashbacks.)

He grunts and presses his free hand to his mouth, hiding the returning smile.

“I have no sympathy for you whatsoever.”

-

The pack likes to joke that Derek is their collective kept houseboy because out of everybody, he’s the one with the most amount of free time on his hands.

(He usually likes to point out that he, being the sole inheritor of a very, very large life insurance policy and then some from careful investing, had been the one financing most of the pack’s activities since high school.

Erica had laughed once and said with an evil sparkle in her eye, “So you’re saying you’d rather be called our sugar daddy,” much to the visible disgust of everyone else, including Derek, who’d almost turned green at the thought.)

In actuality, Derek holds a steady income with the commissions he gets as an avant garde woodworker (noted as one of the up-and-coming artists to look out for in NorCal, which Isaac repeatedly brags to anybody who sees the wood figurines on his office desk and asks about them), and much of his supposed free time is actually spent in the basement of the house where his workspace is. That’s where he is right now, working on a particularly finicky request by one of the deputies at the police station, some sort of boxy chair and table set that she apparently wanted to be fused together with his “signature style,” when his cellphone rings shrilly, cutting through the relative quiet of the room.

Tossing the sandpaper onto the table next to him, Derek fishes out his phone from his jean pocket, cursing a little at the tight space he has to shove his hand through to retrieve his phone. Swiping it to answer, he grumbles out a terse greeting.

“Derek? Is this Derek Hale?” asks the voice on the phone hesitantly. Derek coughs, inhaling a bit of sawdust.

“Y-yeah, it’s Derek. Who’s this?” he chokes out, making a face at the taste of wood shavings in his mouth.

The person on the other line lets out a sigh of relief. “Oh thank god. This is like the fourth phone number I’ve tried, and let me tell you, there’ve been a lot of angry people on the phone today. Did you know there are like at least seven other Derek Hales listed in New York State alone? I’m so glad I finally got it right.”

Derek raises an eyebrow and checks the caller ID before putting it back to his ear. “Who are you?”

“Oh! Oh, it’s, uh, it’s Matt? Matthew Park?”

He drums around his head for a moment, rolling the name around. “...The super?”

“Yes! That’s me! So you do remember me, right? That’s so great, man, that really warms my heart, hah hah,” Matt answers, letting out a small laugh. Derek waits for him to continue, but Matt just trails off, leaving them both to sit in silence.

“......”

“...What do you want,” Derek grinds out, impatient and ready to end the call then and there.

“Oh! Yeah! Okay, so the reason why I’m calling you, Derek, is that, well, I know you guys aren’t in New York anymore—thanks to the four other times I tried a 718 number—but, you apparently did long-term storage like right before you hightailed it out of here, right?”

The image of last month’s bill payments come to mind, and Derek is fairly certain the payments were automatic and present the last time he checked, so why the phone call? He grunts in affirmation, barely prompting his former superintendent to continue.

“...Y-yeah? …...Um, okay, uh...so, the company you did storage with recently got bought out by another company like two weeks ago, and they’re, like, building a new Lowes there instead or something, so the storage company basically sent back all the stuff they had to the people who had units there. And, uh, you and Laura never apparently updated your return address, so they sent it back to your old place here, and, well. I, uh, took it upon myself to hold onto the stuff for you and wanted to see whether you’d want to come back for it or not and then I could send it to another place for you. Uh, you and Laura, I mean,” Matt babbles, nerves clear in his voice.

Derek furrows his brows. Shouldn’t he have gotten some sort of notification about this, if his storage suddenly went kaput? He puts the phone on speaker while he checks, scrolls through his mountain of unread email with a clumsy thumb, and stops right at the email from the storage company notifying him of their closure. Shit.

He hadn’t thought about the stuff he left behind in New York in a very long time, beyond whether or not his automatic payments went in. _Shit._ It’s been seven years since that time, since he and Laura had lived in the same place and shared the same space. Her stuff’s still there too, he realizes: the textbooks, the piles and piles of study notes that she hoarded even after she graduated, her clothes, her favorite CDs—all of it.

Matt takes his lack of response as an answer. “...Okay, yeah, um, I’ll just put it in another storage place for you, that’s fine, I mean, I know you must be pretty busy and all with your new work—and, congrats on the recent mention by the, uh, LA Times, that’s really cool. Always knew you were something special—uhm. So, yeah, I’ll just—”

“No, that’s....” Derek interrupts, his fingers tight around the phone, ignoring the rest of Matt’s words. “I can...I’ll come pick it up.”

“What—hey, no, it’s totally fine, you don’t have to come and get it. It’s no skin off my nose or anything,” Matt reassures hastily.

“I’ll come,” Derek says decisively. He’ll have to let the pack know at tomorrow’s pack meeting that he’ll be gone for a bit. He’ll probably have to take a car there to pick up all the stuff; he should start planning the trip now.

“Uh, yeah, okay, whenever you’re free, then.”

“I’ll see you then.”

“What? Uh, yeah, you—” He hangs up then, loosely tossing his phone onto the table, and exhales. Then, he picks back up the sandpaper and goes back to his wood piece.

He stays there the entire afternoon, absentmindedly sanding and carving.

-

Derek doesn’t bring up his sudden trip to New York until near the end of their weekly pack meeting, after they finish hashing out a plan for how to approach the new supernatural visitors of Beacon Hills: a trio of selkies from the shores of southern California. (They’re nice enough people, just a little suspicious seeing as Beacon Hills is rather smack-dab in the middle of forest land.) It’s nothing hostile, just a peaceful inquiry of their reasons for coming into their town.

They’re all finishing up dinner, scraping up the last bits of spaghetti and meatballs from the three trays-worth that Stiles cooked for his turn as chef, and Derek tries to slip it in as casually as possible.

“I’ll be out of town for the next few days for a thing in New York, so don’t destroy my house while I’m gone,” Derek says offhandedly, following his words with the last forkful of spaghetti to stop any immediate questions from coming. Scott pauses in mid-bite, and turns to look at him curiously.

“Yeah? What for?” Boyd looks up, too, in polite curiosity, while Isaac sitting beside him just shovels the last helping of spaghetti into his mouth and grunts.

Derek shrugs. “Gotta go pick up some stuff,” he replies between chews. Erica, on his right, smirks and drags a finger across her empty plate and sucks off the tomato sauce.

“Bring me back something nice and expensive, then,” she says expectantly. Derek rolls his eyes in response and makes a note to bring her back a tacky t-shirt from a hawker.

“How long will you be gone?” Allison asks, and Derek unconsciously frowns before he smooths it out.

“Not long. A week at most,” he says. Lydia hums with disinterest and rises from her seat.

“See you in a week, then,” she says airily and beckons at Allison. “Come on, Allison, I’ll give you a ride home.” At that, the rest of the room breaks up, each getting up from their seat and thanking Stiles for the meal.

“We’ll call you if anything comes up,” Scott says before he leaves, clapping Derek on the shoulder. “Have a good trip.”

Five minutes later, the dining room’s cleared of everybody but Derek and Stiles, who’s stacking up the plates and gathering all the forks for clean up. Derek stares at him for a moment, uncomfortably tense at the lack of reaction from the normally responsive boy, and then puts himself to work too, clearing up the rest of the table. He can see Stiles fidgeting in place out of the corner of his eye, and patiently waits for Stiles to open the conversation.

“So! New York, huh?” Stiles offers, after a minute of relative silence, save for the scraping of utensils and plates. Derek nods nonverbally, out of things to say. “How’re you getting there? Plane?”

“Car, actually,” Derek says, and lifts up his stack of plates to go to the kitchen. Stiles trails behind him, gawking unattractively.

“You serious? Road-tripping across America? _Dude!_ That’s awesome!” Stiles says, gleefully open-mouthed. Derek can’t help the twitch of lips in face of his enthusiasm, and he places his plates gently into the sink. He’s supremely glad he emptied his hands at Stiles’ next question. “What are you picking up?”

“...Laura’s and my old things from our old apartment,” he mumbles, watching his fingers curl slowly into his palms. Stiles murmurs a small ‘oh’ to himself and nudges Derek away so he can stack his own set of plates and cutlery on top of Derek’s. He doesn’t ask anything else, just smiles at Derek and turns on the faucet to start washing dishes.

Derek sticks close, though, unwilling to consider why that’s the case, and stares petulantly at his feet, crossing his arms to build a barricade of sorts. Stiles just goes on washing, fingers gripping tightly over slippery plates and scrubbing a worn sponge over the oily residue from dinner. The conversational silence isn’t anything new, but Derek feels a little like crawling out of his skin, uncomfortable and stretched too tight as the silence drags on longer. It feels like he’s being punished for not offering more, and that feeling made him more angry and petty than anything, so Derek just continues to bore holes into the tops of his feet.

Stiles seems to notice his tension, though, and frowns to himself, sneaking glances at Derek. Tough. Derek’s not breaking for shit.

“I haven’t been back in New York in seven years,” slips past Derek’s lips, just as he hardens his resolve. He’s surprised first, and then mad at himself for saying more without prompting, and he glowers even further at his feet, tightening his crossed arms.

“Yeah? You never even went back just for a little bit at all? Not even while we were all scattered for college?” Stiles asks, facing him while rinsing off the last of the plates. Derek shrugs, a non-answer if anything, but Stiles takes it as the unspoken negative that it is with a raised eyebrow and an inflectionless hum. “Are you...excited? To go back to visit?”

There’s a reflexive hunch in his shoulders, the instinctual desire to hide himself away, before he can even control it, and Derek scowls, frustrated with his body’s continuing betrayal. And Stiles doesn’t miss it either, pursing his lips as he shuts off the faucet and wipes his pruny hands on his pants. He wipes the counter of the splattered water droplets around the edges of the sink with a dishtowel and then turns around, leaning against the counter, mimicking Derek’s slouched posture and crossed arms.

“You know....” Stiles prompts, drawing out the last word. He raises his hand to inspect his nails, casual as anything, and continues when Derek reluctantly offers his attention, dragging his eyes away from his interesting socked feet to look at Stiles’ thoughtful face. “I’ve never actually been to New York ever, and I’ve been meaning to go take a look now that I’ve finally graduated.” He drops his hand then, and turns to look head-on at Derek with steady eyes, spreading his arms apart to state open body language to the alpha. “And driving all the way from Beacon Hills to New York will take at least three days, if not more because there’s only one person driving—werewolf stamina and all. Why don’t we go together? Kill two birds with one stone, all that jazz?”

“....”

“C’mon, Derek, it’ll be fun! Besides, I know you’re gonna pine away without me, so I’m really saving all of us here from a week’s worth of pain,” Stiles jokes, nudging Derek in the ribs. He grunts, rolling his eyes at the knobby elbow Stiles jabs at him to ignore the warm flush that’s spreading out his limbs from his navel. “Yeah? Whaddya say, honeybunch? You gonna take me with you, or you gonna cry your pretty green eyes out every single night on the road because I’m not there to soothe your pain?”

Derek huffs, disguising his laugh as the indignant exhale that it should’ve been, and lifts his eyebrows up at Stiles. “Well, apparently, I have to say yes because otherwise, you’re going to be pestering me with your codependency issues the entire time I’m gone, and I can’t inflict that on the rest of the pack.”

Stiles beams, not even reacting to the affront to his person.

“Look at you being the thoughtful alpha everybody secretly knows you are! You’re becoming a real boy now, Derek, I’m so proud!”

“Just for that, we’re taking your jeep,” Derek replies snippily.

-

Stiles looks at him from the passenger seat, blatantly judging and Derek has never more wanted to curl up into a ball and hide. He clears his throat and tightens his grip on the wheel, though, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Are you seriously going to try and do this trip in two days? _Are you crazy?_ ” Stiles hisses, leaning forward. “Derek, it takes forty-three hours to get from Beacon Hills to New York City; that’s nearly _two days with no sleep_. What kind of schmuck do you think I am? What kind of schmuck are _you_? There’s no way in any kind of hell I’m letting either of us sit through, what, twenty-one hours of driving each!”

Derek opens his mouth, but Stiles viciously jabs his index finger in his face.

“Don’t you dare even suggest that you take over my driving half, are you _insane_? And no, I’m not leaving you alone to go on this stupid trip by yourself because you will finally manage to do what all our supernatural enemies have tried and failed to do and kill yourself falling asleep while driving for _forty-three straight hours_. Who the fuck even does that?”

Stiles looks like he’s ready to pop several blood vessels, with the way his face is turning apoplectically maroon while he sputters with outrage. Derek clears his throat again.

“Me and Laura made it to New York in two days,” he mutters, clenching his jaw in an effort to keep his cool. Stiles gapes at him for a minute and then slumps back into his seat, like all his strings had been cut loose. He swipes a hand through his hair and down his face, muttering to himself about being way too old for this kind of shit, and sighs heavily.

“Derek, we’re not in any kind of danger right now, okay?” Stiles ventures, his tone now gentler and easier to digest, unlike the spiraling ball of indignity that had raised his hackles a moment earlier. “When you and Laura went to New York, you were trying to get away from Beacon Hills as fast as possible, right?” He doesn’t say anything more until Derek jerks his head in a single nod, keeping his expression neutral. “We’re not doing that this time, remember? We’re just going to pick up your stuff. There’s no rush, no hurry, no hellhounds biting at our heels. So we can take it easy, okay?”

Derek doesn’t answer, but his grip loosens.

-

They keep on the I-80 and agree to switch driving every two states they pass through. The first night, Derek finally relents and stops by a motel in Utah, having driven around thirteen hours straight except for a single stop for a much-needed bathroom break for Stiles and more gas for the jeep. They argue about how much time to take driving from the west coast to the east, Stiles gunning for more time and Derek on the side of efficiency.

(“The _world’s largest ball of stamps_ , Derek, come _on_!”

“We’re on a goddamn schedule here, Stiles, we can’t stop by every little tiny place you wanna go just for some crappy picture of some stupid ball or giant boot!”

“There’s a giant boot? World’s largest boot? Seriously?”

“Stiles!”)

Derek capitulates after a few minutes, exhausted and ready to fall asleep on his feet, and tells Stiles they’ll take the scenic route on the way back, so stop being such a child. Stiles sputters, but Derek collapses onto his bed before he can say anything more, putting an end to the discussion for the night.

(If Stiles is a little more accommodating than usual the next morning, Derek doesn’t say anything, but he gives up the car keys without a fuss, plopping into the passenger seat and shoving his head against the window corner for another nap. He doesn’t think about the fact that he feels _safe_ in Stiles’ presence, enough that he’s willing to go to sleep in front of him without any sort of posturing.

He misses the small smile on Stiles’ face.)

-

They enter the Lincoln Tunnel around midday three days later, with Stiles in the passenger seat because of his need to soak up everything and you’ve been here already, Derek, so just take the goddamn wheel so I can look like a tourist. Derek is amused for a few moments right until he merges into the tunnel and remembers what an absolute pain in the ass it is to have to enter New York City this way. The traffic jam will last at least thirty minutes, with the jeep moving up a few feet every five minutes, and Stiles, who’d never been the most patient person in the world even without his ADHD, literally starts vibrating in his seat ten minutes into the jam.

Derek himself is already beyond exhausted and ready to just jump out of the car and run the last few miles to Queens and leave the jeep to Stiles to drive, but he sighs heavily and slumps back against the car seat, fingers drumming along the wheel, waiting to inch up the next few feet. The radio is on, set on a light tunes station for the past three hours because that’s all Derek can handle right now, and Derek hums along tunelessly to the song currently being played.

Stiles is already asleep in the seat next to him, having given up on the fight to stay awake for the whole ride through the tunnel, and Derek can only sigh again, wishing furiously for their places to be switched right now.

The car in front inches forward a few feet, and Derek almost zooms forward with how enthusiastically he steps on the gas pedal. The hasty jerk-back as he slams onto the brake pedal snaps Stiles’ lolling head forward and back into his headrest, instantly waking up the snoozing boy.

“Wha—what, we there yet? What?” Stiles mumbles, snapping into a ready position in his seat, before blinking away the remnants of sleep and looking around. “Oh, we’re still here, oh god. Why the fuck did you wake me up, man, I was having the time of my life in my dream!”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I’m so sorry I just saved us both from being smashed into another car. I’ll be sure to let it happen next time, my bad.” Stiles makes a face at him, and shifts back into his seat, trying to make himself comfortable again.

“So where are we going, exactly?” he asks, amusing himself with the window switch. Derek sneaks a glance at him from the corner of his eye and snaps back to the windshield, even though Stiles remains steadfastly concentrated on the switch.

“We’ll be heading into Queens, one of the farther boroughs of the city,” Derek says casually, focused on the car in front of him. They inch up some more, a bigger distance than their last, and a sorely-welcomed sign that they’ve almost reached the end of the jam, and Derek heaves a relieved sigh. “We’re almost free.”

The car’s silent again, save for Stiles’ erratic switch flicking. Derek rolls his eyes, resigning himself to at least another hour of this torture, but Stiles clears his throat then.

“Uh, so, are we going to your old apartment? A storage facility? Details, man, details,” Stiles prods. Derek purses his lips and frowns.

“My old superintendent has them,” he says after a bit. “The storage company that I’d used got bought out a month ago and shipped it back to the apartment complex; he’s been holding it for me since.”

“Well, that’s awfully nice of him,” Stiles says noncommittally, looking out the window. “What a sweet man. You guys must’ve been really close for him to do that, huh?”

Derek stays quiet. The moment stretches into an awkward silence, and Stiles turns back to Derek with narrowed eyes.

“You’re not telling me something,” he says suspiciously. “What are you not telling me?”

Derek doesn’t fidget in his seat because he’s a fucking grown man; he shifts, though, trying to adjust himself into a better position. “He has a bit of a crush on me,” he grumbles in the end, trying to mumble it enough that Stiles won’t be able to hear it and talk about it.

“Oh my god, is he like one of those creepy old men who prey on hot young guys and like give you low rent in return for your body?” Stiles asks, oddly horrified and curious at the same time.

“Stiles, what the fuck?”

“I’m serious, though, Derek, don’t sell your body to creepy pedophilic men, it’s not worth the pain,” Stiles continues, eyes trained on Derek’s face.

“I really don’t get what goes on in your head sometimes,” Derek says, mystified and resigned. “No, _jesus_ , he’s like—” Derek stops. He clenches his jaw and inhales deeply before continuing. “He’s around Laura’s age if she were still alive today.”

“...Oh.”

The car moves up another few feet.

“Well,” Stiles hedges, a little more cautiously now, “are you uncomfortable with the attention? Has he been untoward or some shit?”

Derek snorts, fingers loosening around the wheel, as he steps on the gas pedal and starts moving them through the tunnel once more. “‘Untoward’, really? Have I suddenly stepped back into the Victorian ages? Where’s my corset and high-waist britches?”

“Shut up, asshole, I’m trying to be delicate here,” Stiles grumbles, shoving him. Derek rolls his eyes.

“It’s been like seven years since I’ve seen the guy, I think I can handle a measly thirty minute—tops—meeting with him,” he says grumpily. “Stop trying to treat me with this kid gloves bullshit.”

Stiles says nothing, just stares at him, expression unreadable, before shrugging and sitting back into his chair. “No kid gloves, got it.” He turns his head out towards the window, and Derek frowns a little when he doesn’t turn back to face him. “Now that we’ve established that, let’s get us out of this forsaken tunnel and into somewhere actually fun so I can get my tourism on.”

“...Whatever.”

-

No one actually goes to Queens for tourism. When people think of New York City, the first boroughs to come to mind are Manhattan or Brooklyn, and most people really just gravitate towards those areas. But Derek likes Queens. It’s a quieter sort of bustle, not quite the frenetic energy of Manhattan that most people associate with the whole of New York City, but still very much alive and well in its own space.

Also, as they drive along the LIE away from the car-boxing of the city jams, the roads clear up considerably—as the skyscrapers shrink further and further away from its nest—and Derek can finally drive at a decent speed again.

Stiles...isn’t quite as enamored with the borough, his intent city-gazing growing more and more distracted as they strip past the clunkier, boxy neighborhood of Jamaica and enter into the domain of tall brown-stone apartments and concrete buildings, built for maximum capacity and much less pleasing to the eye than the ones in the city.

Derek points out the Unisphere though, in good will now that he’s almost there, and steals glances at a revived Stiles who makes a point to take pictures as they pass by the giant sphere. Once Stiles is satisfied, he sits back into his chair and props his arm against the window-ledge, bracing his face against it, and stares out into the open highway, which is only moderately populated because it’s just about hitting lunchtime. Derek takes a quick look over his shoulder and signals right to the enter the right-most lane, smoothly transitioning into the near-empty lane.

“We’re almost there; we can grab a bite to eat before we get to the apartment,” he says offhandedly, casually lifting his hand from the wheel and wrapping his arm around the back of Stiles’ chair. “We’re getting close to Flushing—we can eat cheap there.”

“Ooh, you mean the largest conclave of Chinese people outside of Chinatown in New York, right? And one of the biggest religiously diverse neighborhoods in America, with over 200 places of worship?” Stiles asks, a light in his eyes. Derek side-eyes him before rolling his eyes.

“You went on one of your Wikipedia jags, didn’t you,” he says, exasperated but fond. Stiles makes a face and waves it away.

“One must know every bit of the enemy territory so that one doesn’t get attacked by stray were-coyotes or lizards out of nowhere,” Stiles says sagely. “Also, Flushing’s got one of the hugest populations of transplanted yaoguai outside of Asia. Never hurts to be extra informed.”

“I knew a couple of gumiho grandmothers that used to sell me and Laura fresh-made kimchi every other week. They lived like three floors above us,” Derek says in sudden recollection. His eyes go a little fuzzy. “Still the best kimchi I’ve ever had on this side of the globe. Mrs. Byun’s in particular was fearsome—her kkakdugi could make grown men cry.”

Stiles listens with an open mouth, but Derek supposes it’s really not that common in the first place for him to be voluntarily sharing information—especially things about his sister.

“You had connections with actual flesh-eating fox demons? And you never thought to _share_ that particular tidbit with us?” Stiles says incredulously. “Where were they when we were getting our asses whooped by Gerard and the kanima?”

“Taking care of their grandchildren and making sure their in-laws complied with their every request?” Derek says sarcastically, raising his brows. “Contrary to popular belief, we supernatural creatures of the night do actually have real lives outside of battling the forces of light and dark.”

“I’ve had a skewed sample size to work with, so sue me,” Stiles replies, rolling his eyes. Derek considers this and shrugs in agreeance.

“Beacon Hills: home of our very own Hellmouth,” Derek says, pursing his lips so he doesn’t give away the grin of satisfaction that wells up when Stiles chokes and snaps his head to Derek and starts grilling him about his secret love for all things Buffy.

This road trip has been opening Derek up a lot; it’s….kind of nice.

(In the back of his mind, though, Derek knows exactly what’s been the catalyst to his newfound openness—and it’s not the road trip.

He doesn't look at Stiles.)

-

They pull into Main Street, and instantly Derek trades his relaxed driving posture for a more tightly controlled form, hands gripping tightly at his wheels and eyes narrowing at the roads. Stiles doesn’t say anything about this visible change in demeanor, but his expression is sufficient enough.

Derek finds himself unwittingly replying to the ridiculous look on Stiles’ face, already on the defensive. “Shut up, it’s the roads. I fucking hate driving in Flushing. It’s anarchy here.”

Stiles lets that statement sit between them, waits for Derek to hear how stupid he sounds. “And why did you drive here then, pray tell?”

_Because you wanted to come here, dumbass, why the fuck else,_ is what Derek doesn’t say. Instead he just grunts and steers them down the road, carefully swerving a van turning into their lane without warning and sharply honking in retaliation.

“Where do you want to eat,” Derek spits out, not bothering to make it a question. Stiles eyes him for another moment and then thinks, idly drumming his fingers against the window-ledge.

“What’s good and cheap?” he points out. “Because as much as I’m willing to go hard-as-a-motherfucker on the culinary streets of Flushing, my wallet is less than accommodating.”

Derek shrugs, impatiently waiting for the hoard of shoppers and street-goers to cross the goddamn street that he’s trying to turn into. “There are a few places in mind, but I haven’t been here in over seven years, so I wouldn’t have the slightest clue if there’s anything cheaper or new.”

“What’s on your mind then?”

“Lamb skewers on Prince Street, if you’re looking for dirt cheap, and probably the Golden Shopping Mall food court that cropped up in the last few years; local reviews say it’s one of the places to go for authentic regional Chinese food,” Derek suggests. “There’s always Pho Bang which is an Establishment at this point, and the giant noodle bowl shop that’s across from the library that I never remembered the name to.”

“‘Authentic regional Chinese food,’ _god_ , Derek, can you sound anymore white trash hipster?” Stiles mocks. “You sure you didn’t live in Brooklyn?”

“Brooklyn was dirt cheap around the time me and Laura came in, but we had the money for a safer neighborhood,” Derek says quietly, pulling into a small parking lot. It’s unexpectedly freer than his past experiences, and he finds a parking spot easily, squeezing the jeep into the space without trouble. “Laura didn’t take any chances.”

Stiles moves his mouth a little, lost for words, before quickly unbuckling and popping out of the jeep. “You are giving me serious whiplash, man.”

Derek snorts and parks the jeep belatedly, getting out in a slower, more subdued manner. “Can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen,” he says glibly.

There’s just something about the New York air (the smell of scallion buns at the entrance of the parking lot, probably) and this extended time in Stiles’ presence that makes Derek’s lips so much looser and easier to slip things through without feeling the aching burn of memories repressed, like ripping a scab open to dig through the flesh—except the scab’s been healed all this time. Nothing hurts quite like Laura gone from his life, but with every bit Derek lets go, it’s starting to feel like he’s being buoyed up toward an easier breathing place.

Progress has never felt so _light_.

-

He takes Stiles to the skewers cart down by Prince and laughs at an initially-repulsed Stiles, confronted by offals roasting on a stick, before gamely trying them anyway and immediately demanding for more cash to buy more, not even two-thirds finished with his first stick. The $1 duck bun stall is gone, but there’s a small stand under the bridge selling cheap scallion pancakes that Derek immediately drags Stiles towards, not even the least bit ashamed. It’s not like they don’t have the same things back on the West Coast, but here, everything’s flavored with a spicy tinge of nostalgia that makes eating all the more enjoyable.

They stop by Pho Bang last, with Derek buying a bag’s worth of banh mi for their dinner, and then hustle it back to the parking lot to get their car before their paid time runs out.

-

It takes only another twenty minutes to get to Oakland Gardens, the area where Derek and Laura had resided in for the few years after the fire, but Derek finds himself increasingly reluctant the closer they get. He doesn’t go intentionally slow—but only because the goddamn sedan behind him kept honking obnoxiously when Derek attempted to drag his feet on the road, and within a blink of an eye, they were pulling up to the street where his co-op building stood.

Parking is a bit of time-suck, which is good but also frustrating because Derek just wants to find a goddamn place to park and get this done with. Still, they find one relatively close by to the building, and he parks with the finality of someone heading towards the death march rather than to pick up storage. Stiles doesn’t miss this, but he allows Derek a few minutes of just sitting in the jeep, carving patterns into his steering wheel with barely-there claws before he puts his foot down.

“So, are we gonna actually get of this jeep and go pick up your stuff, or are we just gonna boil in here instead? ‘Cause I’m a big fan of the first one, if you don’t mind,” Stiles says, elongating the ‘o’ in his first syllable for extra obnoxiousness. Derek grunts and tightens his grip on the wheel.

Stiles sighs and drops his head against the headrest. “Okay, what’s the guy’s phone number? Does he know we’re here yet? I bet you didn’t even call him to let him know when we were coming,” he says accusatorially, palming out his phone. “Gotta let the ol’ human do all the things, right? Numbers, please.”

It takes another two prods, one to the ribs and the other to the ticklish spot just below his neckline before Derek growls out the numbers to Stiles, who then punches them in and presses the phone to his ear, quirking his mouth at Derek.

“Hello? Hi, yes, am I speaking to a Matthew Park, superintendent? I am? Great!” Stiles chirps, a touchier chipper than his normal sarcastic tone. “Derek and I are outside your building, actually—yes, Derek Hale, yes—and we’re here to pick up our stuff. Should we come up or—oh, you’re gonna come down? Okay, we’ll meet you outside then! Thank _you_!”

Derek stares at Stiles, eyebrows reaching at least five of the eight planets, and recoils involuntarily when he hangs up. Stiles notices, even though Derek _knows_ he barely even twitched, and rolls his eyes at him before unbuckling and dropping out of the jeep without warning.

“Time to face your deepest fears, Forrest. Up and at ‘em,” Stiles says impatiently, gesturing with both hands for Derek to get out. Derek does so with great reluctance, extra big grimace in case Stiles misses his subtlety, and grumbles.

“Why am _I_ Forrest Gump, what the fuck, Stiles,” he mutters petulantly. Stiles rolls his eyes again and latches onto his arm immediately when Derek rounds the jeep over to where Stiles stood, smacking him on the chest when Derek instinctively jerks his arm away.

“Shut up and walk. And don’t miss your cues, okay, I’m good, but I’m not Oscar-worthy yet,” Stiles nags, dragging him towards the doors of the apartment building, where an Asian man with messy hair waits.

“I really hate you right now,” Derek mutters through the side of his mouth, and Stiles levels him a fond smile and pats him on the cheek.

“Not as much as you’re about to,” he says sweetly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE
> 
> quite barely, tbh. how's it hangin', guys? it's been a long time since i've trekked back to this corner of the fandom world; when was this last updated, january '13??? betcha never expected to see me pop up again, huh?
> 
> me neither LOLOLOL but here i am anyway. i've all but absconded from the tween woof fandom, onto greener pastures after season 3a let me down Hugely. (i know what's been going on, kira's my Baby but everything else is just Dead to me now.) but!!!! even during all of that, i had the Burning Desire to finish this fic because i'm not a quitter (always)—and i already had like half this chapter written out before i was like 'i'm outtie', so why waste that expended effort?
> 
> my stiles and derek voices are kind of Dead nowadays, so if you see the inconsistencies in their characterizations and stuff (beyond what has progressed in the seasons bc time is Frozen in a preseason au), well, sorry :( i tried my best.
> 
> _i will finish this fic though, please don't be discouraged, that fourth chapter will come and everything will Finally End_ , but in the meantime, have an interlude of sorts.
> 
> thank you to [peardita](http://archiveofourown.org/users/peardita/pseuds/peardita) for staying with me for so long even though we've both veered off the tween woof track; you've been a true wolf brother. and of course, this chapter wouldn't even be posted (nor this fic be in existence) if it wasn't for sophia because literally all my tween woof fics have been written with her in mind. i spite-wrote like a quarter of this fic bc of her Dying Hope in my finishing this fic
> 
> i am motivated by many things, and a lot of that is thanks to you guys for leaving me comments and kudos and still subscribing to this fic :'''') it'll be over soon, but thank you for joining me on this wacky wild ride.
> 
> (but this is my last tween woof fic jsyk)

**Author's Note:**

> (AKA the fake-it-until-you-make-out-boyfriends!fic)
> 
> this is like an exercise in trying to keep derek’s voice in semi-character AND IT’S NOT WORKING. anyway, this was supposed to be in response to this one prompt at the tw kink meme except i lost the link and then i lost control of the direction of my writing bc derek is a funsuck, so what _should've_ been cracky turned into something with more feelings than i had intended.
> 
> (also, i'm so sorry for my tendency to end in one-liners. i like to think i'm funny.)
> 
> thank you to sophia for looking through my fic while i was whining about it and to sara for being the best californian ever uhuhuhuhu. i am nothing without you guys~
> 
> comments and critique are always welcome! and thank you for reading, hah hah.


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